Except
by costellocostello
Summary: "He'd never understood why John had made him quit.  John.   He didn't want to think about him. He didn't miss people like this, it wasn't what Sherlock Holmes did."


He didn't know what to do now. He'd thought he would go insane with boredom waiting in one of the hospital store rooms. He managed to pass the time staring at the ceiling tiles, trying to deduce the diseases of the patients in the room above. Molly let him out at around half past midnight, making sure nobody would wander onto the corridor to spot them, then led him silently down a fire escape, their footsteps clattering in the empty stairwell. At the bottom they'd stopped for a moment, leaning against the heavy door.

"Well…" said Molly, twiddling her hands.

"Thankyou, Molly." said Sherlock. The earnestness in his voice sounded awkward and unused.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay with me?" she said "there's only me there, and I really don't mind-"

"Wouldn't be safe for you, there's still people who'll come after me if they find pout. Besides, I need you to pretend you don't know I'm alive and that'll be much easier when you're not having to hide me."

"Okay" she said "Well … bye" a sad, nervous smile twitched her lips. He reached forward to give her a hug, all angled limbs, having to bend considerably at the knees to reach her height.

"Goodbye, Molly." he said. Goodbye sad, sweet Molly Hooper. He pushed the handle of the heavy door and stepped out into the cold street.

He'd been wandering through alleyways and backstreets for about an hour now, not sure what to do. There were a few abandoned buildings nearby that he knew of, disused warehouses or empty flats that he'd be able to sleep and live in. But after being cooped up in the tiny cupboard for hours it was a sensory overload just being outside at night - he felt wired, and he knew he wouldn't sleep. Also, he really wanted a cigarette.

There was an all-night corner shop open at the end of the road. The only person in there was the cashier- only one witness, probably sleep deprived, probably not paying attention. It seemed safe enough. He entered and walked purposefully up to the till.

The cashier looked from him to the newspapers on the counter.

"'Ere you look like that bloke what committed suicide. Sherlock Holmes, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." said Sherlock. "I get that a lot."

The bell over the door tinkled as he took the first cigarette out of the packet. The first drag was blissful. He'd never understood why John had made him quit.

John.

He didn't want to think about him. He didn't miss people like this, it wasn't what Sherlock Holmes did. That strange psychological effect where you almost feel your stomach is literally sinking set in. He'd never fully understood that. He took another drag of the cigarette, hoping to block out the feeling with the taste. Hoping to block out thoughts of John.

He noticed a security camera on the opposite wall, thought for a moment about walking in a different direction - but Mycroft would already know by now, surely. It was a shame Mycroft would be one of two people to know, instead of-

No.

Stop it.

He finished his cigarette, dropped it to the ground, took out a second one.

He knew who wouldn't like him just dropping things on the floor.

But he wasn't going to think about him.

He wondered how he'd cope, waiting for months, thinking he was dead. John wouldn't have believed him, he'd know he wasn't a fraud. He wished he would have done- it might make things easier for him, his doubt and confusion and anger taking his mind off the grief.

Might have made it easier for himself too.

Not that he cared, of course.

John was only his friend, of course. Friends weren't necessary. Friends could be replaced. There was no point in getting attached.

There was no point in the stabbing pain in his chest, so sharp it almost felt physical.

He wished he'd kept his phone now. He supposed he couldn't have phoned or texted him anyway, far too much chance someone would find out. And John needed to be kept in the dark for his plan to work. Still, there were things saved on there, previous texts, little bits of their friendship. He could have gone through them and remembered. That's be nice.

"That'd be stupid" he thought, finishing the second cigarette, scrubbing it out on the pavement. He didn't feel like having a third, and without the warmth from them he noticed how cold it was that night. How lonely it was too, in the wide, empty streets under the cold yellow streetlights. He never really thought about it before, he'd spent countless midnights walking about the city alone. He'd been fine then. Things we're no different to how they were a year or two ago.

Except.

Now that he thought about it, he should find somewhere to sleep. It'd be easier and safer the fewer people there were around. Turning up his collar, he turned into a street away from any security cameras, pulling his coat tight around him to keep out the cold.


End file.
